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NOLAFugees society columnist Cookie & editorial consultant Matthew Suazo exhibit the male gaze at Art For Art's Sake.
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Me read where Chris Rose get in snit over national response to Superdome opening night gala. Rose turning into skilled propagandist for corporate interests. Either that or NFL Shadow Commissioner Tagliabue slip him same pill he slip Michael Vick to endure crowd-pleasing victory. Either way, me cash in for once.
Speaking of cash in, was me only one who ejaculate into potato chip bowl when Drew Brees connected with Marques Colston in final minute against Carolina to pull within three points? It one of the great moments in sports gambling history. Me riding you hard, Jack Moss.
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Dave Brinks cash in with YAWP! and pirate shots: OK in me book.
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Me in such good mood over winning streak, me agree to cover weekly 17 Poets reading last Thursday at Gold Mine Saloon in French Quarter. Host and bar owner Dave Brinks generous with Angelo Brocato cannolis, and he give me props when on the mike. But wife Megan Burns too imperious to pose for picture. Me guess you can be that way when married into Flaming Dr. Pepper Shot empire. Megan Burns dead to me.
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Joel Dailey make sense to me but sometimes on the mic he bite me shit.
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Featured readers include addled poet Joel Dailey. Me like his work, though me think he rip me off occasionally with tone and meter. Here sample line: “Has AIDS/wants dollar.” Perhaps next time he acknowledge influence, or at least free copy of his latest book, Nutria Bounce.
Me also get to hear NOLAFugees correspondent bitch Andrea Boll read vignettes about second line parades. Boll create impression that things not go well at parades, that it not all gold-suited black men twirling umbrellas. She not have to tell me. Boll’s work remind me of ugly Sunday night at Joe’s Cozy Corner in Treme, when me not listen to voice in head telling me to go home before scene turn ugly. Me wake up with crime scene tape stuck to fur.
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Boll's work remind me of ugly times in Treme.
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Me spirits not dampened by depressive literary scene, because me get email from Tennessee Williams Fest bitch Karissa Kary that she back from Buenos Aires! Me looking forward to getting together for Malbec and tango lesson. Karissa, you know where to find me.
Me also in good mood because me get to mingle among drunk society bitches Saturday night during Art for Art’s sake downtown. Me begin evening at A Gallery in French Quarter for showing of Diane Arbus photos. Thought-provoking stuff, though me upset curator not include photos Arbus took of me in early 70s. Me forget context, but somehow she capture me wearing yarmulke while drawing liquid out of syringe. Me ask A Gallery manager Eddie Hebert about it, but he claim ignorance.
Walking through Quarter me notice that Club Ritz up and running. Why me not get invite to that opening? NOLAFugees editors not looking out for me best interest.
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Rudy Rasmussen, soon-to-be concierge at Ritz, supporter of local theatre.
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Later me head to Arthur Roger gallery in CBD to find old friend John Waters. Gallery proprietors aggressively try to shove everyone out door, but not before me get to speak with Rudy Rasmussen, concierge at soon-to-be-open Ritz Carlton Hotel. Rudy also “supporter of local theater,” which he not need to say since he standing in middle of John Waters art exhibit. Florida Congressman Mark Foley put out less subtle hints.
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Author Jason Berry & Mary McCay teach me to cash in.
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On me way out of CBD me run into good friends of Press Street publishing. Susan Gisleson push around apple cart of books and postcards. Much talk of arts grants and putting writers in dunking booths for upcoming NOLA Book Fair. Anything for art. Me holding out for paid sponsorship. Time to cash in on fame. Perhaps Jason Berry, author of Last of Red Hot Poppas, can get publisher to make push via strategically placed banner ads. But no matter. As long as Saints keep beating spread, me able to floss.
Editor’s note: Cookie was not able by the deadline to comment fully on the results of the Saints/Buccaneers game, in which the Saints were favored by 7 points, except to say: “Me lose ass.”
